The Edge of Time: A South Seas Sailing Adventure

By Dan Feltham

A grieving widower decides to take his 18-year old twin daughters and other family members on a sailboat cruise to the South Pacific. They visit the Marquesas Islands and then on the way to Tahiti, are suddenly hit by a mysterious storm. The merging of a rumored Mayan doomsday prediction, a unique date, time and set of mid ocean coordinates all result in a time warp back 200 years. They reach O'Taheiti in the year 1812 and are welcomed and entranced by the local islanders. They are individually torn between remaining with new friends on the island or attempting the unknowns of a return to present time. Love affairs and black pearls complicate matters. The story is a combination of sailing, time travel, history, fantasy, and South Seas romance. Come aboard and enjoy the trip. You may want to share their adventure, if only in the reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483508870

Book preview

Copyright 2013 by Dan Feltham

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 9781483508870

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.

Dedicated to Kerry Feltham, who has some dreams of his own.

Many adventures lie ahead. Live life to the fullest my son.

Somewhere over the distant horizon there is a place of warm blue lagoons white sand beaches, tropical trade winds, exotic men and seductive women.

Previous Books Written By Dan Feltham

1. Tradewinds Calling

2. The Catalina Connection

3. When Big Blue Went To War

4. Mount Rushmore’s Legacy

This book is primarily a work of fiction. Names of the principal story characters and incidences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is coincidental, except for the intended references to actual places and historical events.

CONTENTS

Prologue – Storm

Chapter 1 – A Change of Plans

Chapter 2 – Boat Prep

Chapter 3 – A Very Huge Ocean

Chapter 4 – Nuku Hiva

Chapter 5 – Where Are We? Where Are We Going?

Chapter 6 – Paradise Past

History Intermission

Chapter 7 – A Tahitian Christmas

Chapter 8 – Problems and Answers

Chapter 9 – A Whaling We Won’t Go

Chapter 10 - Paopao Bay, Moorea

Chapter 11 - Diane’s Luau and New Beginnings

Chapter 12 - Pearls and Romance

Chapter 13 - Storm Calling

Chapter 14 - Tahiti Again?

Chapter 15 - New Lives

Chapter 16 - Romance and Truth

Chapter 17 - Iles Sous le Vent

Chapter 18 - Bora Bora

Epilogue – After Tahiti

List of Main Characters

A Few Tahitian Words

Bibliography

Book’s Genesis

Book’s Description

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Prologue – Storm

Fear must be controlled – adrenalin helps, as does the company of others – but fear always lurks just below the surface of a sailor’s mind when Mother Nature is running wild. The crashing, pounding and roar of ocean waves below, and the lightning, thunder and torrential rain from above were driving our insignificant yacht relentlessly west. There seemed to be no let up in the vicious storm. Steering for thirty minutes at the wheel was an endurance limit. There was water everywhere, and this was definitely not any part of the leisurely cruise to Paradise I had envisioned. This storm had not been forecast. What made this ocean so angry? How long could the crew and boat handle the conditions? I thought that at some point we might have to heave to in order to get some rest.

This was the heaviest weather at sea I had experienced in my thirty odd years of sailing. The possibilities of capsizing, being dismasted, one of the crew thrown overboard and lost or the boat driven on a coral reef all kept chasing through my mind – anxiety plus fatigue is not a good combination and can lead to errors. We were cold, wet, tired and semi-nauseas. I needed to remain alert to the safety of each family crewmember, all of whom I loved dearly. We five depended on correct decisions and the integrity of the yacht.

For the past 40 hours, my mates and I had been slammed around by a fierce Pacific low - tossed like a forgotten child’s toy lost in a washing machine. We were all exhausted and soaked right through our guaranteed-to-be-100-percent waterproof, foul weather clothing. Cold was not supposed to exist in the tropics, but it did. We were living in our life jackets and safety harnesses. Sea and sky had merged and it seemed like rogue waves were the norm. White water and spume stretched to every horizon.

Sizes of waves are often exaggerated when seen from the deck of a small boat, especially at night. The noise of rushing/crushing water and the phosphorescence flashing white at angry snarling wave tops are what define the breaking crests and affect one’s judgment. I don’t think it was an exaggeration to say that the waves were at least as high as a five-story building, trough to crest. Perhaps the Pacific Ocean had been misnamed – at least where we were.

During the night, each lightning flash illuminated the frightening size of the next breaking graybeard. At rare times I experienced a sense of exhilaration as our yacht Cherish rushed down the face of a giant curling mass of water with the froth of the roaring bow wake almost amidships. The noise of an ocean gone crazy plus the shrieking wind through the rigging was almost deafening. Noise can frighten you, but fortunately noise can’t hurt you. While on deck, we had to shout to each other to be heard. During the height of the storm, we put out two warps (heavy 100 foot streaming lines with short lengths of chain at the ends designed for the purpose). The warps helped slow our surfing down the face of each monster wave and kept the yacht from broaching as the stern was held square to the charging waves. We ran due west before the gale (Force 9, maybe 10) under minimal sail, and the warps helped control the difficult hand steering. Heavy blasts of rain were sometimes driven so hard that the wave tops were all but flattened and the odd sound was like the sizzle of grease in a frying pan. Our stout Hylas 54 cruising yacht was still intact, although she had suffered some minor damage.

I had made a good choice with the Hylas and I appreciated her elevated center cockpit; we were higher above the cascades of seawater than that of a boat with the more traditional aft cockpit. Down below it was impossible to stand; the safest place was on the floor. In the South Pacific such storms are called tropical cyclones, but November was not supposed to produce such weather, at least not at this latitude. Unfortunately, there is always an exception to a rule. Each morning’s light did not bring relief, only a better view of black clouds, huge waves and of the chaos surrounding our little ship.

Then suddenly the rain stopped and the seas began to calm over a period of only a few minutes. The wind dropped from gusts of over fifty knots to a pleasant five to eight, and the violence we had experienced for far too long finally settled into a comfortable sailing motion. The residual sea state went from the relentless, monstrous breakers to occasional baby whitecaps that barely tickled the ocean’s surface – and as I said, all too suddenly, almost a dead calm by comparison. Eerie, but I had no complaints! The clear sky and late morning sun were suddenly warming. Steam rose from the still wet deck. The relief was overwhelmingly welcome, but strange and unbelievable. Like a Biblical Jonah, we had been coughed up from the belly of an angry whale and into a much safer world. The transition was as abrupt as it was complete.

There had been some seasickness with the two girls below, and I’ll admit I too had been nauseous when working at the chart table or attempting to use the head facilities (an almost impossible but necessary task even in a storm), so the relative calm also brought welcomed intestinal relief. A wet, rolling airless cabin is not a pleasant thing. There’s nothing worse than seasickness, short of death. Someone yelled up through the companionway, Hey what happened? I thought, Yeah, what the heck had just happened? Blue skies dead ahead and ugly black roiling storm clouds behind, stretched from horizon to horizon, and blended that interface with dark tossing seas. There was a straight-line demarcation of a major weather change directly above our heads. I realized that we would be fine and gave a silent prayer of thanks to God and to King Neptune. A soaring albatross, ghost of a lost ancient sailor, joined our flight away from the storm – a very good omen, I hoped.

The change gave our crew of five a chance to regain our equilibrium and to look around the boat and start to clean up the mess and make repairs. The main salon and galley area below decks were in a shambles. Everything that had been carefully tied down had not stayed tied down. Large fiberglass boats are not supposed to leak, but nevertheless the floorboards were awash, even with the bilge pump going. Water had entered through the cowling vents and the companionway hatch during crew changes. Up on the foredeck, the hard dinghy had been ripped away, the victim of an exceptionally large wave that broke over the entire yacht. Its unfortunate departure bent several starboard lifeline stanchions. Thank goodness the life raft canister and ditch bag had not carried away. The self-steering wind vane was a wreck and useless, the vane itself gone and the steel framework bent. I had not disengaged it in time. The hatchway dodger framework was bent. Even the heavy storm jib was in bad shape, but still set and pulling on the jackstay, carrying us forward.

We were just two days southwest of Hiva Oa, one of the principal Islands of the Marquesas Group. This storm came up suddenly and had not appeared on any weather map or forecast; if it had, I definitely would not have departed our safe and secure anchorage in Atuona Bay. Thank God, my two girls and my brother and nephew were all okay. We were shaken, but not broken.

We hadn’t eaten a warm cooked meal since the rough weather surprised us. A daughter emerged from the cocoon of the cabin, I couldn’t tell which twin, and she took the wheel. I went below to assess the messed up conditions. On the way down through the hatch I glanced at my watch. It was twelve-thirty and the date was December 21, 2012. The significance of the date or time did not register in my weary mind, at least not right away. I had to get some solid food going, reorganize the crew, change into some partly dry clothes if I could find any, check all the instruments and pull in the warps. I also needed to figure out exactly where we were, since we had been blown way off from our intended course. A position was critically important. I was thankful for GPS; it would identify our exact location. I was in for a bad surprise. The GPS screen was blank. That’s impossible, I thought - GPS navigates the world!

We were sailing to Tahiti from San Diego. All had gone almost perfect until the storm – a storm that would have a lasting effect on the rest of our five lives. But, I’ve gotten way ahead of my story. I need to introduce myself and my crew, and go back about eight months to set the stage for what led to our present storm battered environment. I also need to take you back to the Los Angeles area where I had lived, loved and worked most of my adult life. It had not been a good year, a really bad thing had happened – to me and my family – that led to us being some where over the edge on a big ocean in mid South Pacific, French Polynesia.

Chapter 1 – A Change of Plans

One year ago, I was happily married to a wonderful and loving woman named Megan. She grew up in South Pasadena, where she had been active in sports and selected as homecoming queen by her 1986 high school classmates. Both of our families were ardent long-time sailing enthusiasts so it was a kindly fate that allowed me to meet Megan at a yacht club after a weekend race. We dated, began sailing and doing other things together, and were married on the island of Maui, a few years after I finished Law School. Our twin daughters were born in 1994. Time passed, we struggled, then prospered and the girls were finally in high school and doing well. I guess we were a typical Southern California family and perhaps better off financially than most - comfortable would be the word. Life was about as good as it could be.

We lived in an older two-story all-wood home in the hills above Malibu. The property narrowly escaped two serious California wild fires. The house had a commanding view of Pacific Coast Highway and the shimmering ocean beyond. On clear days, we could see Catalina Island to the south and Santa Cruz Island to the west, both sailing destinations. I had a lucrative law practice in the nearby city of Santa Monica, a trusted younger partner, a good looking Para-legal secretary, and a clientele of Hollywood stars, frustrated wanna-be stars and a few large corporate retainers.

Megan had a teaching degree from Scripps College in Claremont and taught for a number of years when the girls were in grade school. She now worked part time at the nearby J. Paul Getty Museum, just to keep busy when she wasn’t taking care of me, the twins, the house, the meals, and our busy social and sailing race schedule. She was still a very attractive woman, a daily jogger and in perfect physical shape because of it. At 43, she looked great in a slinky evening gown. I loved her even more when she was covered in her foul weather gear and we were rounding San Nicholas Island or some other mark of an ocean race at midnight in the rain. She was my crewmate, helpmate, playmate, adviser, councilor, lover, partner and I could count on her in all kinds of circumstances.

Daughters Cindy and Diane were in their senior years at Malibu High School. Twins, yes, and they were almost identical physically, but otherwise were as different as night and day. Cindy was ten minutes older, had also been a homecoming queen, but didn’t have the greatest grades in the world due to a propensity to be off surfing along the coast when she should have been in school. She was the prototype California Girl that the Beach Boys sang about – sky-blue eyes, long blonde corn-silk unkempt hair, a beautiful figure, medium height and sun-tanned with the personality of a three-ring circus. She could have stared in the old TV series, Bay Watch, and put most of those gals to shame. You would say that she was a natural beauty. She said she was majoring in oceanography, wave dynamics and beaches. I probably should not have made our old Ford Ranger truck so available; it accommodated a couple of tied-down surfboards very nicely.

Funny thing, Diane was just as good looking, but chose some differences. She wore minimal make-up and managed her neat appearance much better. She usually wore her hair in a long combed back ponytail. She was one inch taller than Cindy and not as suntanned. Her blue eyes had a greenish tint. Diane pulled straight A’s in every subject and had scholarship offers to more colleges than we could count. She was more serious and headstrong than fun loving Cindy. She was athletic enough, but pretended to be more interested in home economics, computers and books. She was not an introvert at all, but just wanted to be her own person and unique from her flamboyant sister. Underneath her pretenses, Diane may actually have been the wilder of the two girls, but I didn’t know about that at the time. As far as I knew, neither girl smoked pot or used drugs like their classmates, nor were they sexually promiscuous according to Megan – thank goodness! It was almost too good to be true.

I admit the differences between the two were probably Megan’s and my fault. Ever since the years when we could advise them and they’d listen, we had encouraged individualism and told them to emphasize their differences. Be sisters, we said, but try not to be mirror images of each other. Unlike some proud parents of twins, we purposely made their names different rather than any rhyming or sound-alike names. And we didn’t dress them the same when they were babies or growing up. I don’t want to pretend that the girls were little angels, because they weren’t. From time to time, Megan would tell me things that they had done, told to her by Diane or Cindy in strict confidence.

Oh, and by the way, my name is Bob Stockton, age 48, over six foot one and still had most of my dark hair but with sprinkles of grey. There were deep crinkles at the corners of my brown eyes, from years of squinting into the sun and a refusal to wear sunglasses. I was just over two hundred pounds, had played football all through school and the dynamics of sailing was keeping me in pretty good shape. But most important, I was still very much in love with my wife, the girls, and with our lives together.

Megan and I also wanted a boy and tried and tried for many years, but without success, although I’ll admit the trying was wonderful in itself. Both girls and Megan loved sailing almost as much as I (they actually did) so I didn’t need a son to go sailing with me. All three of my girls could trim a jib, set a spinnaker or plot a proper course. I was so very much blessed. Almost every weekend was reserved for racing or cruising our vintage Cal 39 sloop, Spindrift, in the waters around Southern Cal and Catalina Island or south past San Diego into Mexico.

Megan and I had decided to take a year off from jobs and responsibilities in order to sail south to Cabo San Lucas at the tip of Baja California, or even continue as far down the Mexican coast to Puerto Vallarta, if everything was going well. The Los Angeles area is one the best places in the world to live, but the pace is wearing. We both wanted to get away for a while from traffic, overcrowding, smog, high prices, taxes, crime, and political turmoil. The girls would be eighteen and almost old enough to take care of themselves, they insisted and we hoped. They could stay at the house or live with friends and then join us on the boat somewhere along the way during college vacation weeks. We thought the Cal 39 would serve Megan and I just fine. However, we also started looking for a larger more comfortable yacht, but one that two could handle without needing extra crew. I took no more legal cases and made plans to turn my divorce cases and corporate accounts over to my partner. We planned to depart by mid-summer, or maybe cruise south with the Baja Ha-Ha rally out of San Diego.

In early-March, Megan began complaining about being nauseous and having unaccustomed stomach and back pains. She lost some of her appetite and lost some weight in the process. She stopped work and jogging, giving all kinds of excuses. She also lost some of her normal enthusiasm and zeal, but at her age, dumb me, I thought it was an early female menopausal thing. Megan put off going to our family doctor, saying she was healthy and it was probably nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine, she said. Finally, at my insistence, she went to our family doctor and also a specialist in early May. They both diagnosed her problem as advanced pancreatic cancer. One doctor actually stated, This is going to get you. There was really no hope and no cure. We tried chemo but it was too late. Radiation didn’t help and she lost her long naturally curly golden hair. I quit work to care for her and helplessly watched as she went from Ibuprofen to Vicadin for pain and then to the Hospice visits and Morphine. On June 30, the day we had planned to go on our cruise, she was gone. Her last whispered words were, I’m sorry Bob, we didn’t get to do that sail. I wonder if they have sailboats in Heaven? I’ll see you there, my love.

The next week, a few close friends, the twins and I, solemnly scattered her ashes from the deck of Spindrift a few miles out to sea, offshore from a Malibu headland appropriately named Point Dume. It was the most difficult thing I had ever done in my life. The girls sat huddled together on the cabin top, emotions almost check but with huge tears running down their cheeks. Megan had been a Scottish Campbell, so we had a bagpipe play as her ashes were lovingly blown across the same ocean surface that we had sailed across for years. Then both girls read a poem in unison that Diane had written called Ode to Megan that ended with something like Sail On Dear Mom, Sail On. We returned to the yacht club for a Celebration of Life gathering, and then the sadness set in. Obviously, my whole world changed.

I kept asking God, why her. I grieved night and day, wandered aimlessly around the yard waiting for Meg’s familiar call to dinner that never came, went down to the boat to do some maintenance that I somehow never did, listened to old CD music we had loved, while sitting on the deck gazing out over the ocean without seeing anything. I moved out of our bedroom and spent restless nights on the downstairs couch. I left all of Megan’s clothes hanging in her closet and her private things folded neatly in dresser drawers, waiting for someone to volunteer to dispose of the items that the girls didn’t want to keep. I couldn’t bear to touch her favorite dresses without her in them. I couldn’t sleep and kept going over our twenty-five years of life together. We had so many things we still wanted to do. I also started drinking too much. Rum or tequila mix well with almost anything – except sorrow and the human body. I was a mess. My spirit was broken.

Diane and Cindy had idolized their mom- she was their pattern - and were grieving too in their own quiet way, but they had their school and boy friends to keep them busier than I. They tried to get me to do stuff, see people, go sailing, drive up to the mountains, go out to dinner, but to no avail. I was in a major funk. I hadn’t realized how much I had depended on her, until now. My foundation had been ripped out from under me. And if one more friend came up to me and gave me that over worn cliche, sorry for your loss Bob, but she’s in a better place, I swear I was going to scream or totally lose it. She probably was in a better place, but we both thought that we were already in a pretty good place here on earth, together, and loving each other and the girls. However, something had to be done – about me.

One day, sometime in the first week of August, my best friend, Bruce, drove up the steep driveway in his ’32 Ford roadster. I was in the garage, mindlessly moving tools around on my workbench or tinkering with something, killing time for which I had no purpose.

Hey Robert. he yelled from the open car. Got a beer for a thirsty traveler?

Sure. Hi Bruce. Come on in. What’s up?

It was unusual for him to just drop by, or to even call me Robert. We were long time friends from college, through sailing, the yacht club and competing against or sailing with each other over many years. We popped the caps on a couple of St. Pauli Girls and walked out on the deck. I always kept a six-pack of St Paulis in the fridge. There are hundreds – maybe thousands - of great tasting beers, but only one that had the picture of a blond girl on the bottle that looked just like my daughters. I could tell Bruce had something serious on his mind.

Well, old buddy, began my friend. We’ve known each other a long time but I’m not here on a social call. Set that beer down and listen to me for a few minutes, and by the way, you look like crap. I’ve got two things I want to discuss with you and I want you to listen, and listen good!

Bruce paused and looked straight at me. "I was shopping around the other day, for boats on the Internet – Yachtworld.com, a couple of west coast yacht brokers, magazines and all that. I know that you and Megan were planning to do a get-away cruise and I think you ought to go ahead and do it anyway – maybe in her honor. I think she’d want you to. There’s a 2005 model Hylas 54 for sale down in San Diego and from the listing it looks like she is in pretty good shape. You mentioned to me at the Yacht Club a couple months ago that you and Megan were looking at the Hylas. I called the owner and he might consider a trade for your Cal 39, plus the difference in value, of course. The boat has been to the South Pacific and the owner now wants to downsize. I think you should take the year off